slightly left of center thoughts

I am a walking emotional havoc of late. Thanks to Friendster for giving me this space to air out my angst he he. I really am a happy person, but recent events are causing an upheaval in my otherwise happy existence. First, there are the kindred who can’t talk of anything else but the need to be married (happily or whatever!) at this stage of my life which, by the way, at 26 going 27, is still far from being the spinster-y picture they conjure. They really kept insisting, with all the vehemence they can muster, that I am close to being a barren old maid and lest I snag someone suitable to tie the knot with the soonest possible time, I am bound to spend the rest of my life alone and miserable. For heaven’s sakes, anyone can be miserable at any stage of his or her life—married or not! Happiness is a state of mind, or a state of being. What is more, everything has its own time! Why,why, should I worry?

You see, I am usually not affected by such things as age and social conventions, or at least not yet. I have my own visions of my future and am happy the way things are today. I never want age to be a limiting factor to the things I do. More importantly, I don’t want my present happiness to be spoiled by such unreasonable worries about the future. Even in my simple wisdom, I know that there are things I cannot control. Sure, I am not one hundred percent contented with my life and there are things which could make me happier, but I feel so, so blessed already that to complain for more I cannot afford to do. That I am with my family; that ma, pa and bro are healthy; that I have lots of genuine friends who are there for me; that I am earning enough to satisfy my simple whims; that I am working for my dreams—aren’t these sufficient blessings already? The reason why I am suddenly carping is that I don’t like it when other people dictate how I should live my life according to how they lived theirs and then judge me based on their boxed ideas. Life, after all, has no formulas. To each his/her own.

The second reason why I am distracted is the recent unexpected encounters I had with some “folks”, which left me drained and confused. If only I could sleep for twelve hours and wake up as if nothing has happened. Yup, I did try to sleep for twelve hours in vain attempt to erase the bitter taste in my mouth, but the disconcerting memories still haunt me by the time I wake up. I tried to pray, but perhaps prayers sometimes go unanswered for some time. They say that God has His own time. Or maybe I did not pray hard enough. Then I resorted to my usual remedy—my favorite “therapy”: coffee with my ever dependable and funny friends. But I don’t know; I still feel edgy until now. Even the latter, I guess, does not have its usual potent healing effect. Now, in another vain attempt, I am trying to immerse myself in a mountain of work, hoping that the grueling demands of deadlines, lack of sleep and dare I say, passion for my craft, would eventually drown out the clamors inside me. Finally, I comfort myself by saying that other people have heavier, more tangible burdens, while I only have internal struggles which, according to one friend, are “mga inembentong dramas”. I know it’s not good to find comfort in other people’s misery, but at least it forces me to be less absorbed in my woes and be grateful for the blessings instead.

Hayy…life could be complicated at times. Adulthood is no walk in the park–cliché, I know, but I can’t help saying it nonetheless. Add this to the effects of hormones and horoscopes, I guess, he he. Whatever! Maybe I’ll try to work for twelve hours straight so I’ll be so tired to think of anything else but sleep and sweet dreams

No matter what the world says, I have the best family in the world. We are not rich. We don’t own fancy stuff. We don’t go to dream vacations or go shopping and indulge ourselves. We don’t hobnob with the rich and famous. We just act ourselves, content the way we are—and indeed we are happy. In our house there are no pretensions. Simply satisfied of being with each other, we find peace.

One of my parents’ favorite pastimes, apart from gardening, is watching noontime shows—those shows in which the hosts shout a lot and the audience are expected to laugh at their jokes. No intention to offend here, but I usually find such shows corny, being the kinda snooty person that I am who sometimes have the pretension of only wanting to watch “intellectually stimulating” programs–as if! (sooo ‘90s). There was a time though when the TV was silent because my parents were not home. “Aahh bliss!” was my first reaction, but then suddenly I missed the noise and ka-cornihan. I missed the mundane things, even if they be corny or not falling within the ambit of my supposed sophistication, that mark my everyday life—a great part of which include my parents.

They go to work everyday; I also go on with my daily affairs and dramas. We have our routines and thus often get absorbed in our personal issues. The drudgery of everyday sometimes makes me forget how lucky I am to be still going home to them, but the truth is my life could never be better. This does not mean that I am happy because I am forever living like an unemancipated child, but because I know that home is where I can finally unload myself of the burdens, where I can relax and let myself go. Boy am I lucky to have these parents who care if their hardheaded daughter gets home safe, even if it really gets on my nerves when ma does that police investigator act. I am lucky that every night, upon entering our door, ma is there to ask me if I’ve eaten already. She even takes the time to reheat the food that pa so lovingly cooked even if she knows that I have probably eaten out with friends or insists that I follow her example of dieting. In other words, I feel so lucky to feel so cared for, no matter what I do or don’t do. Being the best daughter is not a prerequisite to enjoy their love. I have never said this, but I’m glad to see my parents every day, knowing that this gift has its time limit. Nothing goes on forever. Life is short, and for now let me be simply grateful.

P.S.

also lucky that brother takes the time to call even if evil older sister is usually mean and demanding and has nothing better to say than “what’s ur ulam there? don’t u have work?”

I had one helluva disturbing night. I went out to have fun and didn’t expect that it would be such an effort to have fun. Sure, my friend’s the same. She’s the same old friend that I have known way back my days of chubby innocence. My woes have nothing to do with her, maybe I am the one who changed. It’s just that all through the night until I arrived home I am only reminded of my imperfections. It became glaringly clear to me, by taking a hard and long look at my self-from my chipped and faded nail polish to the way I played with the ice on my beer-that I do not paint a pretty picture of a capable-take note, “mature”-adult. Or so it seems. Even this attempt to capture my thoughts is giving me a sense of futility knowing that even in the deep confines of my mind I cannot seek solace because my thoughts and words are so far from being perfect the way I want them to be. This is a good example of a night in which I clearly loathe being me. Why can’t I just be my friend whose knowledge about love and relationship etc is deeper than mine? Why can’t I be the goddam daughter to my mother who knows the relevance of a Sunday mass with family and the importance of the Feast of the Holy Family? I am not all these people whom other people expect a 26-year old to be! And as final proof of my quagmire which puts me even lower on the maturity scale, I am jealous of all the righteous persons because I have convinced myself that God loves them more. Dammit why can’t I have any smart and sane answers to all the questions that crop up in my world??? And why do other people have the answers??? What greater punishment could there be in life than to feel perennially inadequate, thus the endless quest to be good and loved??? Darn, I must be experiencing a quarter-life rebellious stage.

I used to think that when I reach this age I would be more at peace with the world and with myself. I used to imagine myself reaching that level of maturity and sophistication which the other 26-year olds radiate, but it seems that I am still stuck in the mud. I hate it when I feel this way because it only wants to make me feel even more rebellious. I hate the idea that I have to conform to the standards that all of society is trying to impose. I hate the protocols and social niceties, the expectations that at mid-20s I should be established in a boring job and paying my own insurance, taxes, etc. and that before 30 I should be married-happily or miserably, whatever! as long as I am married-and raising my own brood. I don’t mean to be neo-hippie or something…I just want to dig a pit for myself and live there for the rest of my life away from others.

This writing exercise is not making me feel better because even I, myself, had turned against me-noticing every bit of flaw in my grammar, the jagged train of messy thoughts and the pathetic whining. I thought that writing would help clear my mind but it only helped raise many more questions; it only reminded me that I am such an absent-minded freak because I am clearly forgetting the main reason why I write anyway. But what the heck! I am going to do this as long as I want even if my fingers feel numb, my eyes have no more tears, and my mind bleeds dry of words. I am a rebel after all.

Boy, these surely are times when it is me against the world-against the self-righteous world, I mean. I have always noticed, those who are more tolerant and forgiving of themselves are surely more tolerant and forgiving of their neighbors and those who give themselves more freedom are more likely to give others the freedom to be themselves as well.

Surely there have been times when I am completely in love with my life and the world I live in. And people have loved me back as well. I could never be more thankful for such a gift. These were the moments of pure bliss, when it seems that nothing could ever go wrong again. But then, everything has its end. The dark days crept slowly as if to contrast the festive atmosphere and the bright lights around me. It is so ironic that everything around me is so merry but I feel dark and brooding inside. What is even worse is that I have to pretend that I am fine, that I am normal, lest people hate me for being different and weird.

At the end of it all, I just want to say that this is not my night. Definitely not my night. And tomorrow I will take off this stupid prostitute-red nail polish, go to mass and try to act like a normal 26-year old.

I got wasted again last night. And now as I swim through the muddle of memories of whatever transpired during those not-so-lucid moments, I cannot help but smile and think that I have such great friends. How many persons in the world could, after guzzling several mixtures of alcohol, say so many stupid, stupid things in just a matter of hours; force other people to listen to one’s pathetic singing of angry songs over the videoke; punctuate the midnight peace with a slur of cuss words against amour non récompensé; crackle like a hyena non-stop, and still wake-up accepted and cared-for by his or her friends? It was fun; that is all I can say. The glitzy laughter during the night somehow moved me away from my recent self-centeredness, from my preoccupation over the last petty dramas of my life. More important is that it reminded me that I am a fun person, always have been and always will be with or without the hang-ups. Fun has won the game again, thanks to some good old and new friends. Life is good no matter what. No exam in civil procedure and public corp. could lick the inner party-girl within me waiting to be revved up at the end of the day, err, at the end of the sem. Anyways my head still hurts. Better go back to bed. I just can’t resist typing this anyway.

This post is actually about an article I chanced upon in the June 21st issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. It was submitted for that special corner in the newpaper entitled, "100 Kwentong Peyups" in honor of UP’s centennial celebration. I decided to reproduce it here, even if am not sure if it’s legal hehe, simply because the story struck a chord in my heart. Just like its author, Kristine Nicole Espiritu, I, too, fell in love with UPLB, with its relaxed environment and essentially, its atmosphere of freedom where, despite its being a premier academia, discourses from absolute esoteric intellectualism to absolute kajologans are welcome. I also fell in love with Mount Makiling, the tall trees–in fact, the tallest I’ve seen in my entire life–the royal palms, the green grass in Freedom Park which turns brown during summer and gets filled with garbage during FebFair, the crisp morning air which cools me during my AM jog, and the cold blue water of the Botanical Gardens which soothes me when i get stressed during hellweeks. Then, there are the elbi people, all of them different and unique in their own rights; each one with his or her special brand of smartness. And the best part of it is that UP fosters that atmosphere of tolerance where quaintness to the point of kaweirdohan is allowed. It is in UP where i wore my worst and best fashion; but who cares? it’s my sense of style anyway.

Everyone who studied at UPLB has his or her elbi story. I have mine, and so do others–college (post-grad, for some) adventures we will never forget.There are the horror dorm stories, the "udo" stories, the terror teacher stories, the roommate stories, and the endless crush stories. Who would also forget the stories about one’s gimmick sa grove, especially sa IC’s, Leandro’s and Flatrocks? I remember, every thursday and friday night the street in grove just in front of IC’s is always filled with beautiful people garbed in their stylish clothes (going after the kill), as if there are no classes, exams or researches to do the day after. There were the familiar faces, the staples of bars and frat/soro parties. I experienced drinking until the wee hours of the morning, and still have to hike all the way back to my dorm in Forestry at 4 AM. Of course, who will also forget the frat/soro/org stories? the pakusganay, eng meet, palacasan, cemplangan and gymkhana–sports events which not only fortified friendships, but also served as the venue of fun banters against each other? In my case, my life was forever changed (for the better of course!) after I joined UP Bugkos. Unfortunately, in my entire stay at elbi, i have not seen a single frat "rambol". Not that i condone frat wars, only that it’s part of the UP life drama. At least, I watched the Oblation Run–every year, in fact.

What I have written so far here is just a small piece of an entire stage in one’s life. One could never articulate the experience of having become part of UP culture. Describing how great (or weird) and life-changing many of the teachers, how bright some of your friends, or how challenging the classes and exams were, as well as talking about your study habit of poring over your books and doing math calculations the entire night, will surely border on kayabangan. Words are also often not enough to describe the exhiliration of being one of the Top 10 in your Stat, Chemistry, Math or Engineering subject, and definitely not enough to describe the crashing fall of a grade of 5.0. But these were nonetheless important ingredients of the peyups life. It’s simply that some things need not be stated anymore; they’re understood. My peyups story is just one of the millions out there. For now, here is Kristine Nicole Espiritu’s story:

Walking on Sunshine

by Kristine Nicole M. Espiritu

Philippine Daily Inquirer; June 21, 2008 p. E3

Six years ago, I had the honor of listening to the late Raul Roco give the commencement address at UPLB. He tried to ease our discomfort of being exposed to the cruel April Sun by saying that body parts exposed to the sun are the tougher parts, and cracked a green joke by asking us to think which part of our body were always hidden and the reason for hiding them—because they were extra sensitive. He said that those exposed to the sun survive the most difficult challenges so the graduates who weren’t protected by the shades shouldn’t feel so bad because they were the tough ones. Of course, he said this as he jokingly compared us to body parts. I was educated in a private school from prep until high school. I was in the shade for too long. I was occasionally exposed to the sun, through my high school outreach program and the annual brown envelopes we were given around October—for World Mission Sunday. Somehow this paled in comparison to the glaring sunlight of my UP education—both inside and outside the classroom.

UPLB was never my first choice when I took the UPCAT. It was only a back-up, and I planned on transferring to Diliman or Manila by the time I reached my second year. Of course, life got in the way. I joined a school organization and my weekly trips home were reduced to coming home twice a month. It alarmed my mother, to the point where she asked my cousins if there was anything wrong. There are experiences that are uniquely UPLB. People say that you’re not a UPLB student until you’ve crossed the never-ending bridge or noticed how the jar held by a statue of Maria Makiling changed positions. UPLB is also famous for its “Fertility Tree”—a tree which, according to urban legend, makes you pregnant when you touch it. Being the dumb freshman during PE 1, I leaned against the tree while tying my shoelace in the middle of the one-mile run. No, I did not get pregnant if that was your next question.

I’ve crawled underneath the gates of St. Therese compound when I didn’t make the curfew. I walked around the campus around 2 AM, guiding friends home as they tumble through the streets, half-drunk. I attended History I classes at the IAST, a building up in Forestry, and rushed down to the Humanities building for Philo I. I forced myself to wake up at 7 AM to attend the late great Dean Payawal’s NASC II class. I learned that we are all children of the stars. I was locked out of my building because the hard-core tibak orgs were protesting the icnrease in tuition. I heard my Soc 116 professor lament on the current state of the nation during the impeachment procedings. I went to Sagada on a class trip to be exposed to the situation of the Igorot tribes living there. I went to the relocation are in San Mateo for a Soc 160 paper. I learned that I cannot change the world alone.

I realized that even the best efforts would result in a scolding–a loud and public one–resulting in fear that not even a grade of 1.25 could wipe out. I found out that I could be one of the top 5 students of my Stat 1 Lab Class and yet get a 4.0 in Anthropology. I had friends that could solve all the problems of this country in one drunken discussion. I met professors that changed my view of the world and sent a spark through me encouraging me to make every effort I can to help change the world. I was introduced to the chilling philosophies of Hitler, to the brilliance of Machiavelli, and the gruesome Yanomamo tribe. I learned to walk slow, eat fast, exceed my alcohol limit at least once, sing and dance in public, and to ask questions no matter how stupid they may be. And if I don’t get answers, I learned where and how to look for them: with patience and perseverance brought on by a thirst for knowledge.

When I go back to UPLB, I can’t help but miss sitting at the Humanities steps and wathcing people. I miss the tambayan where one of my best friends would take our org’s logboook and ask all the questions she could think of from "Will a change in administration chnage the Philippine society?" to "Anong mas masarap: banana o tomato ketchup?" Of course these questions would have different answers. Opinions were always welcome in UP. Disagreements were part of our weekly agenda during general assemblies.

There are still questions left unasnwered like "Bakit may taba sa dulo ng barbeque?" but this only reinforce my desire to learn new things. My mother and my grandmother always said that UP was the best place to get a college education and I am living proof of that. Back in high school, I only thought of UP as a school that accepted brilliant minds. I came to understand that it also molded the most extraordinary people. It gave its students character, uniquely UP. I can’t pinpoint waht specific characteristic it is but I’m positive it’s there. (emphasis supplied)

Now, I see UPLB as the sun. It gave me the light I needed to see the world for what it really was–a big and scary place, corrupted by men but not impossible to change.

–Kristine Nicole Espiritu

It has always been a palaisipan for me if it’s possible to make somebody love you. Seriously, is it possible? If yes, then how? =) Boy, somebody’s sounding desperate…hehe

By the tone of my question, I sound like someone who already tried and failed haha…

Discussions about love-ek-ek is not my cup of tea. My usual reaction is, "yikes!". I do think of these things too, but i prefer to keep my softer spots away from public view, being one who is more comfortable with the front of humor or cold rationality when in front of others than with gushy mushiness. Yet here I am, as if having had a 180-degree change of heart, emoting about the same subject which I feel embarassed to talk about. Hence, going back to the topic, I know of women who really exerted extra efforts. Many got what they wanted, but I keep wondering if they are also happy in the end. If I do the same, will I be able to shake off the nagging insecurity that will soon follow knowing that I somehow railroaded the process? (And why do I keep typing questions anyway?)

How come that some people have it easier? Without even trying, voila! There it is–the man of their dreams. I was close to concluding that life is not fair had it not been for my Catholic-school-bred conscience reminding me that everything in this life has a reason—even the fact that one’s “special someone”—(yikes! I hate using those words—cheesiness to the max!) is long delayed.

I’ve always believed that love has to be spontaneous, that there really is serendipity guiding two people to be finally together. Having one’s lovelife orchestrated, in my opinion lang naman, is akin to messing with the forces of nature. Call me stupid or naïve for looking at love and relationship through rose-tinted glasses, yet it has always been easier for me to have faith in fate. I guess I simply grew up believing things to be that way. Poor me, fooled by the countless unrealistic romantic movies I watched when I was young Nevertheless, growing disenchantment is already making me turn away from these things. I don’t anymore read romantic novels, much less watch heart-warming films (waste of time, tsk tsk!). I am now attempting to eschew–still with minimal success—my former addiction: the heady rush of being smitten. Perhaps soon, I will be “accidental romantic” no more.

Am I invisible? Overbearing? Do people see me as I am, or do they see me as somebody else? Perhaps they don’t see me at all. Sometimes I don’t even see myself; or refuse to see myself. I can’t take this anymore. I just have to write something to put a name to how I feel right now. I know this, have felt this several times; just can’t put my finger on it. Darn! I feel isolated, desolated, deserted…whatever! I can’t find the right word. Whatever it is, I know it’s not good. I guess I’m just slightly depressed. Depressed about what? That, again, I do not know. Obviously, I can’t think straight.

Maybe there is no drama. Maybe I’m just making things up. Maybe it’s only hormones creating this emotional havoc. After all, I’m a happy person. I try to recall memories, and indeed, I see myself smiling and laughing a lot, even talking a lot. To a point, I look stupid. Maybe those times that I was talking and smiling, I should’ve shut up and appeared somber. Yet, tonight—just for tonight—I don’t care. Or maybe even until tomorrow morning, I still won’t care.

See, I’m like Wolverine. I easily heal—on the inside, that is. I seem to have an endless capacity to amuse myself. I see the humor in every situation, even if it be the direst of circumstances. In fact, I find people who easily panic, who make a big deal out of things or are overly serious quite irksome. They vex me. I remember when we were almost robbed, it sure as hell alarmed us, but after which we (ma+pa+bro+myself) simply joked and laughed about it. I get stressed, but easily recover. Even after a tough exam or a make-or-break something, I blow off steam by joking and laughing. Then again, I don’t wanna be Wolverine. I wanna be Jean Gray. Not only do two handsome men—mutants, I mean—pine after her, she also has this sexy coolness which I don’t see myself having in a hundred years. Talk about putting one’s self down. Still, I wanna be Jean Gray; the drama revolves around her.

Darn, now I can’t concentrate anymore coz mama sat in the sofa beside the computer (and even looks at me once in a while), and I simply, simply can’t emote or show any sign of depression whatsoever in front her. What can I do? I’ve always been the hard-headed, acerbic, tough-as-medium-rare-beef and smart-alecky daughter. Besides, showing emotion is not part of family tradition. I’m just pretending right now to be writing a project since it usually is the only reason why I glue myself in this chair in front of the PC. My mood is broken, and now that I can’t think of anything else. I better resign myself to bed. I should have not put myself through this in the first place. Better sleep and forget about everything. Goodness, I hope I did not waste somebody else’s time.

P.S. Notice how many “I”s I’ve used in this entry? Sometimes I wonder if I’m egocentric. Maybe I am! Then again, I refuse to be concerned for now. I warned, didn’t I?

I went on a road trip to Sorsogon and Albay with Tina last weekend. It was something that I wanted to do ever since. Although I hope to go to some place farther, to Visayas or North Luzon perhaps, Bicol will do for now. I am happy already with the fact that something new happened this May, plus it fits well into my budget (you see, “rainy days” are here again). The idea of going on a trip for the sheer pleasure or caprice of it, the thought of hopping into endless rides even if the destination is not yet well-planned, the image of us looking as if we are real travelers (Tina is, but not me hehe)—practically, that feeling of being carefree and adventurous—all appeal to me well. They remind me of those travel shows in Discovery Travel and Living in which the hosts go to different places, meet all kinds of people and eat all sorts of exotic food and still end up unscathed, vibrant and more importantly, educated. Maybe I’m romanticizing a bit. After all, it was only to Sorsogon and Albay and we didn’t do, eat or encounter anything extraordinary—only soaked our tired bodies in hot and cold springs and ate halo-halo in Tiwi. Yet however short or ordinary our trip was, it was important to me. I lived some part of a dream and had me yearning for more. I felt like a new person after such a long time of being a huge lump of lard perennially in front of this computer. 

Sure indeed, it was tiring; but the physical weariness dissipated as I recalled the experience. I do  have the knack to jump into an adventure after all…hehe…during which, I just prayed hard that no nasty thing will happen—like meeting an accident or losing one’s wallet, cellphone, etc—and that we won’t miss the last trip. As to the latter, if there is a will, there is always a way; if there’s no jeep, walk. Good for us, however, we were able to hitch-hike hehe (from the top of the mountain at BACMAN down to Bacon, Sor). Now, I’m wondering what my next adventure will be. It could be anything, as long as I get to pack my things, go out of the house and feel carefree and young even if it’s just for two days.

p.s. btw, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for tina and her generous cousins–ate rosalyn and kuya evan. lucky me to have met them =)

Plat…plat…the rain falls

Noisy and angry

In the dark of night

Who cares?

Who cares if the dam breaks?

Plat…plat…goes the two drops

Now, I can’t see the words

The black ink spreads

Tarnishing…

The immaculate white